


Canaries in the Mind

by rooyoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooyoo/pseuds/rooyoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Another 221b because I can't commit to long projects. I wrote this one a while ago actually, but I still like it even though it comes across a little pretentious with all the weird poetic language or whatever. Also optional Johnlock goggles. </p><p>This is inspired by the Mountain Goats's song <i>Maybe Sprout Wings</i> which is gorgeous, everybody go listen. The title's also vaguely corrupted from the song. </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Canaries in the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Another 221b because I can't commit to long projects. I wrote this one a while ago actually, but I still like it even though it comes across a little pretentious with all the weird poetic language or whatever. Also optional Johnlock goggles. 
> 
> This is inspired by the Mountain Goats's song _Maybe Sprout Wings_ which is gorgeous, everybody go listen. The title's also vaguely corrupted from the song. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”_

John thinks this, sitting in his armchair at Baker Street. He is not composing a eulogy, he tells himself. This is not a goodbye.

_“That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”_

He shuts his eyes against the onslaught. Bitter. Relentless.

_“Who could be that clever?”_

He clenches his fists, his teeth. _You could_ , he thinks fervently. _You could. You always were._

Sentiment is an ugly thing. It rots you, pollutes you. Tears away at your sanity until the engine, the brilliant machine, is crippled, broken, left to run itself out in endless, aimless circles, never penetrating to the central point. John does not profess to having a brilliant mind, but his is indeed hurtling toward an inevitable crash - a collision course with itself.

He opens his eyes to the cold morning sun, shining through the curtains. He remembers how _he_ stood there. Blue silk dressing gown. Pyjamas washed thin. Feet bare. Hand outstretched. Eyes narrowed, lips parted, face pale, _I was so alone_ \- No. Stop.

This is not (it was not) a goodbye. Because goodbyes go both ways, don’t they? And he has yet to (will not ever) say his part.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

* * *

Here, at 221B, John sees phantoms. And maybe, if he hopes, the sounds of wings beating.


End file.
